


A Solitary Death

by Harukami



Category: The Bone Key - Sarah Monette
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Vampires, Yuletide, Yuletide 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21826942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harukami/pseuds/Harukami
Summary: They say that the sarcophagus is that of Alexander the Great. Booth has his doubts—how many places is that man said to be buried?—but if so, it would certainly be the prize of the Samuel Mather Parrington Museum. Archaeology might not be Booth's specialty, but he is nevertheless drawn into things when a fascinating stranger shows up at the Parrington after the sarcophagus arrives.
Relationships: Kyle Murchison Booth/John Pelham Ratcliffe
Comments: 31
Kudos: 45
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	A Solitary Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [platinum_firebird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/platinum_firebird/gifts).



"They're saying it's the sarcophagus of Alexander the Great," I said. 

It did not seem likely to be true. The 'supposed resting place' of Alexander the Great was discovered fairly regularly, each with no conclusive evidence to accompany it. And even if one happened to be correct, they couldn't all be. However impressive the man had been during his life, I doubted that he was buried in multiple plots.

Miss Coburn ratified me with a dismissive snort. "Dr. Ainsley says that, yes. And heaven knows that having a potential Alexander sarcophagus in our collection will help the museum, so I'm sure that's why he's saying it."

Recently returned from field work at Vergina in Greece, Miss Coburn was more tanned and windburned than ever. It suited her in a way that I was sure would be hideous on myself. "I thought so," I murmured. "Though, er, I suppose it  _ is _ from around the right… the right location, isn't it?"

"And the right time period," Miss Coburn said. "It looks to date from the 4th century BC." 

I could see why Dr. Ainsley would justify the claim, in that case. People had been looking for the site of the royal city of Aegae for a long time, and Vergina was considered a strong contender. Even the recently-founded Aristotle University was said to be developing an archaeological program to try to find the city site there. Of course Dr. Ainsley would want to make a find before anyone else did, and while the sarcophagus could have belonged to anyone from the relevant time—at least, anyone who had enough rank to  _ get  _ a sarcophagus—he'd love to take credit for that impressive a discovery. "And yet you don't, er, think he's right?"

"Far be it for me to question Dr. Ainsley," Miss Coburn said, somewhat dryly. I was well aware that although she'd likely done most of the work, he would get the credit—she was officially only his assistant. "But no, Booth, not at all. I'm proud of the work we did out there, and any discovery is new information, new things to learn about the time! But I'd think that anyone that powerful, whether it was Alexander or his father Philip II, would be found in some sort of royal complex. This wasn't anything like that. The building we found was, based on its foundations, a small, isolated thing. We didn't find any other structures immediately around it, and it seemed to have been built to house this sarcophagus specifically."

I nodded. "That, er,  _ would _ make it seem unlikely."

"Oh, it's not just that." Miss Coburn had clearly been keeping this in for a while. She gave me a smile that was less apologetic and more relieved at my obvious willingness to bear the onslaught of her annoyance at Dr. Ainsley. "It's a magnificent black sarcophagus in its own way, but it lacks any carvings or other ornamentation that I'd expect for such a huge figure as Alexander himself. Given the incredibly extravagant funeral arrangements we know Alexander made for Hephaestion—10,000 talents at its most conservative estimate, Booth—" Well over a hundred million dollars in modern money, an impossible sum to imagine. "—I don't believe the man would have ever left instructions that he should be buried alone in an uncarved sarcophagus in the middle of nowhere."

I sought for a way to steer the conversation away from Alexander's reputed relationship with Hephaestion—as an archaeologist, I'm sure Miss Coburn would have plenty of opinions on that as well, and regardless of which side of that historical debate she fell on, it struck a little too close to home for me to be able to encourage. "I see your point. Though, er, given the succession war after Alexander's death, I'm not sure his funeral instructions may have, ah, been paid much heed."

"Granted," Miss Coburn said, "and of course, there was a purpose to his extravagant funeral for Hephaestion. Alexander believed he himself would be treated as divine after his death since he believed he was descended from Zeus, so he was trying to get Hephaestion divine honors in order that they would be together in the afterlife. Even so, it's unimaginable that an egomaniac like Alexander would allow this even if he believed his reward was guaranteed. And if his instructions were, as you say, ignored, there's no reason to assume his remains would have been shipped back to Macedon in the first place—which is also why I fall on the side of believing he's buried at Babylon."

I nodded helplessly. "A strong, er, contender, I think?"

"It is, yes." She sighed. "It's a non-issue regardless. If you ask me, I believe that this sarcophagus  _ could _ , at most, have been built with the intention of one day being  _ meant _ for Alexander and had not yet been carved, but after his unexpected death by illness in Babylon, it was abandoned. Perhaps the room we found was just a storage shed, or perhaps it was treated like an empty coffin and interred where it was in a local ceremony out of respect for its intended owner, but nothing more. The locals didn't even seem to protest Dr. Ainsley's intention to take the sarcophagus back here. Frankly, they seemed fine with it, which makes me wonder if they consider it to have historical value at all to them. It obviously does to  _ us _ , but I can't say that makes it Alexander's tomb."

"I suppose not," I agreed hastily. "Did the contents cast, er, any further light on the matter? The grave goods or, ah, whatever is left of the body…?"

Her expression turned wry at that and she let out a soft, strange laugh. "You would think so, wouldn't you?" she said. "But while it had some grave goods—ones that seemed ceremonial in nature, which I'd normally expect to be applied to a body—there were no remains found inside, or any sign of there having ever been any. Unless someone took away the corpse and somehow left the things that should have gone  _ through _ the corpse, I have to assume the sarcophagus was never occupied."

***

Regardless of the original intended purpose of the sarcophagus or not, it was the Parrington's now, and a feather in Dr. Starkweather's cap, or so he told me when he summoned me into his office.

I stood there, limply wondering why he had called me. Normally, I'd learn such things from inter-departmental gossip, not by being forced to stand in front of the odious man himself. Perhaps someone had overheard Miss Coburn and I gossiping in the staff room and had reported it to him, and he felt it his duty to quash any possibility I would foment doubt among the public. "I, er, see," I said weakly.

The look he gave me showed me that he didn't care in the slightest what I saw. "We'll be exhibiting it as the possible sarcophagus of Alexander the Great, of course. Not a word a lie, and I'm sure it'll kick off more excavations in the area and more exciting discoveries. Perhaps next we'll find Philip II himself, or some of his wives or children!"

"...Perhaps," I plausibly agreed. "Er, I'm glad."

Again, he made it wordlessly obvious that he also didn't care whether I was glad or if I choked on the information. "With that under consideration, and given his areas of archaeological expertise, as soon as I got word I took the liberty of inviting John Pelham Ratcliffe to come see the sarcophagus and give his opinion on it."

Suddenly, this entire conversation made at least a little sense. Ratcliffe and I had gone to school together, and while we had hated each other then, we had become something like friends in the brief time we spent together at the school reunion earlier this year—and he, like Miss Coburn, was one of the few allies in my life who fully believed that I saw and heard things of uncanny origin. I was almost relieved at the news. It would be nice to see him again. Perhaps we could get lunch. 

Dr. Starkweather seemed to be waiting. "Yes?" I ventured.

He sighed heavily, and I wondered if, actually, Ratcliffe had simply refused the invitation—and, if so, if Dr. Starkweather were going to attempt to leverage me to change his mind. Ratcliffe had made it clear that he quite accurately thought Dr. Starkweather to be a napoleonic egomaniac, and had previously refused Dr. Starkweather's offers to lure him away from the Midwestern museum as his source of expedition funding.

But it was me that Dr. Starkweather was sighing at. "Well, he's coming, Booth, and we need a place to put him up. Since you're his old friend and all that, and since you live so nearby, I've volunteered your place."

"I—excuse me?" My palms went clammy. "But, er, that's—" Surely we could afford a hotel, I didn't say. I knew that whenever possible, Dr. Starkweather made sure we cut unnecessary expenses on luxuries such as comfort or privacy.

"I don't see why it's a problem," Dr. Starkweather said. "You've stayed at plenty of people's houses when travelling for work." 

He was right. When assessing personal libraries to see if they would be of value to the Parrington, I had frequently been forced to impose on my host, and in some awkward occasions had even seen daughters of the household forced to share rooms so I could borrow one of theirs. I hated it every time. I made one token protest. "I, er, only have an apartment, not a house."

"A few blocks away, yes, I know," Dr. Starkweather said. "I'm sure you've got a couch to sleep on. If you don't, we do, and I  _ know _ you sleep in the museum as often as you bother going home, so I don't see why it's a problem now. At any rate, he should be arriving tonight around 8. Just be nice to our guest, and who knows what will come of it?"

So he was still trying to court Ratcliffe's name and reputation for the museum. I attempted a smile that I was sure was more of a grimace. "...Of course," I said.

***

I threw myself into my work for the rest of the day to try to banish the discontent I felt at being toyed with; that was what Dr. Starkweather did, and there was no point in harboring a grudge over it. 

Still, it meant that I was one of the last of my colleagues in leaving the museum that day by heading out at 7, a good hour after the museum closed. I still had plenty of time to get to the station to meet Ratcliffe, and even had he already eaten dinner, I imagined he wouldn't turn down a second helping.

My head full of these thoughts, I almost ran into the man loitering on the steps of the Parrington.

He had red hair, cropped short with curls that were more artfully tousled than actually wild, and was of medium height, though of course still short compared to my ungainly height. He was handsome, as well, with a strong jaw and classical features, though it was hard to determine his actual age. His suit was fashionable, I suppose, though it looked to be tailored to someone slightly larger than him, and I thought it was likely to be a hand-me-down.

And then his eyes met mine and it became remarkably difficult to think.

They were an unusual shade of gray—not black, or brown, or blue, but some stormy mix of all three. I think he was smiling at me, though it was hard to look away from his eyes to tell.

"Good evening," he said. "You work here, do you not?"

I found my voice from somewhere around my midsection. "Er, yes. Booth. I'm one of the, ah, archivists…" 

"Oh, perfect," the man said. He held out a hand and, shocking myself greatly, I took it without even a flinch. It was strangely warm in mine and felt soft, perhaps even a little swollen. "It's lovely to meet you, Booth."

I knew I should want to free my hand, and was unnerved by the fact that I  _ didn't  _ want to. "Yes, ah, and you are…?"

The stranger seemed almost surprised to be asked. "Phillip Carnus," he said. "It's a pleasure." His hand was too lingering and too hot, and the heavy air around the both of us as we stood there, hand in hand, reminded me of something I could not quite remember, and that, too, made me uncomfortable.

I tried to find air under this pressure and forced my hand out of his, which seemed also to surprise him. It had taken a surprising amount of will to do what would normally have been instinct. I couldn't look away from the man. "Can I, er, help you with something, Mr. Carnus?"

"I hope so," Carnus said, with a soft laugh. "There's some information I'm looking for, and I heard that the Parrington has a very extensive archive. I don't suppose you'll let me in to see it?"

I could see no reason at the time why I shouldn't. "Certainly, er, just come with me."

He fell into step behind me obediently, and I led the way to the stacks, which I unlocked for him, and let him inside. I recall that I wished him good luck and, thinking no more of this odd man since I now knew him to be an interested member of the public, I continued on my way to the station.

Regardless, I was still troubled by some scraps of memory that I couldn't quite place—a similar man, perhaps, who had behaved in similar ways?

No, I decided, rubbing nervously at the burn scar on my wrist, an awkward habit I had never broken even though I still couldn't recall when I'd come by it since it had been so near to my illness. I was simply trying to recall a dream. If there was any man I had previously met on the steps on the Parrington who had so affected me, he certainly wasn't someone I could remember.

***

Ratcliffe greeted me with a boisterous, "Hello, Booth," followed by a somewhat sardonic quirk of his brow and smile. "Bet you didn't expect me to agree to Starkweather's invitation, did you?"

I managed something like a smile back. "Er, not really. You, ah, made yourself pretty clear to me how you felt about him."

"And for good reason." Ratcliffe clasped my shoulder briefly, a quick squeeze that he let go of almost immediately out of deference to my aversion to touch. "But I have to admit I'm curious about this sarcophagus, so I'm willing to hold my nose for a day or two to get a look. It was kind of you to put me up, Booth."

I didn't tell him that it was against my will, as I had no desire to make him uncomfortable. "Of… of course. Have you, er, eaten?"

He hadn't, so we went out to dinner at a restaurant I vaguely recalled having gone to once, and he took upon himself the burden of conversation without requiring me to do the same. I sat and listened to him with some pleasure as he talked about the work he had been doing lately, his little pleasures in finding pottery shards and similar things. I even offered to take a look at copies of some of the writings found on some of them, though I was sure the staff at the Midwestern had the translation in hand.

Ratcliffe waited until we were back in my apartment, and I had changed the sheets for him and otherwise finished final preparations, to ask me, "Have you had any other encounters since then, Booth?"

I didn't have to ask what he meant. "With… the ghost of Palmer?"

"Well, sure, though I thought those dreams were tied to the place. I meant in general, though."

"In general…" The urge to lie rose to my tongue and died there. "Yes, I have had some."

"How many?"

I hadn't been keeping count. "Er. Roughly ten?"

His brows shot up. "Good god, Booth. It's only been a couple of years!"

"I'm sorry, I…" The miserable urge to apologize for my existence was almost drowned out by the conviction that what I had just claimed would be unbelievable by virtue of the sheer amount of it. One ghostly encounter was excusable, perhaps a handful, but more than that…?

"Do you think something happened that draws them to you?" Ratcliffe asked.

Relief made my chest hot for a moment. I was, if nothing else, believed. "Yes," I said.

I didn't clarify further, and after a moment, he nodded, a silent  _ fair enough _ that told me he wouldn't pry into more than I chose to tell him. For a moment, I  _ wanted  _ to say everything about how it had started—the situation with Blaine, my necromantic sacrifice, how my life had been an unending series of horrors since then—but it was too tied up in my illegal love for Blaine to tell easily. 

Besides, I  _ was _ responsible for Blaine's death, and had no desire for Ratcliffe to know that about me.

He saved me by changing the subject, and we talked a little further about inconsequentialities before we changed for bed, him heading to my bedroom and I to the couch. As always, I had difficulty sleeping—my usual problem magnified by the uncomfortable awareness of another person in my apartment, which had never had others there—and I took up a book, reading it while hoping my consciousness would eventually fade.

I was on a rather prosaic story by Algernon Blackwood when my meandering mind abruptly realized what had been so strange about the encounter with the man on the steps of the Parrington. There were two parts to it, in fact, both equally odd:

Firstly, the stacks were, of course,  _ emphatically _ off limits to the public. I had known that the entire time that I worked there, and had never once let any member of the public in to browse. Should anyone ask to see something specific, I would go myself, or send one of the junior archivists, to fetch the information for them. I could not imagine what would have possessed me, even under normal circumstances, to let a total stranger in to browse to his heart's content without asking even a single question.

Secondly, even if I could somehow be distracted enough to forgo all habit and training to let a member of the public into the stacks, it was after hours. The museum was closed. The stacks were an uncanny place, a place where more than one person had reputedly met their death. It felt like a nightmare to be in there, the lights turning off and on of their own will, and I was more than a little convinced that something lived in there that did not like us. No museum employees could not be convinced to enter the stacks after hours. I certainly would not do it myself, and I could not imagine in what alternate reality I could be convinced to do it to someone else.

I wondered if the man was still there now.

***

Whatever small amount of sleep I was able to claim did not make me any less preoccupied with my realization, and it must have showed on my face as I mechanically prepared coffee for the both of us, because Ratcliffe asked me what was bothering me.

It was a testament to Ratcliffe's faith in my experiences that I actually told him. After all, if there was no supernatural influence compelling my actions last night, I had committed a huge breach of museum security, and one I was describing to someone attached to a rival museum.

Still, Ratcliffe listened with no visible sign that he believed I had made any such error, his brows furrowed. "Did you feel threatened by this Mr. Carnus?"

"...No," I said. I knew that Ratcliffe could hear the hesitation in my voice, but I had no way to explain the fascination I'd felt with the man, the nearly erotic fixation on his eyes, the heat of his hand, how uncomfortable he'd made me feel. "He simply asked, and I… I did it. Er, that is to say, I did find him somewhat threatening, but there was nothing in his manner to cause it, just…"

I didn't bother finishing that, and Ratcliffe didn't bother asking me to. It was obvious how many things made me feel threatened.

"Well, that's strange in and of itself," Ratcliffe pointed out. "Doing that just because he asked? In a place you've, as you put it, found unnaturally terrifying?"

I flushed garishly. "Yes, well, er," I said. "I can say that despite my deep respect for you, I would not, for example, let you in there without permission. Both, ah, because I simply wouldn't do that, and because it… I would not want to do that to you."

Ratcliffe's bright eyes rounded further. I thought perhaps I had said something humiliating, but he just grinned and said, "That's right kind of you, Booth. So it's just a bizarre thing all around. I think… if you felt the man had a preternatural bent, then you're probably right."

"Er… you think so?"

"You've got reams of experience, Booth. You know yourself, and what you would and wouldn't do under most circumstances," Ratcliffe pointed out. "And you know what it feels like when something strange is happening around you. Yes?"

I couldn't argue it. "Yes," I admitted. "I've been developing an, er, a sense for it."

"Just so," Ratcliffe said. "Most likely, the man found whatever he was looking for and showed himself out, and hopefully we won't hear any more about it, but let's plan to meet for lunch to figure out our next steps—just in case. My morning's booked tight with this sarcophagus nonsense, but I think we should figure out a plan of attack in case he's still around or if you've remembered anything else of use."

"Er, we?"

Ratcliffe grinned at me across the rim of his coffee cup. I found it remarkably comfortable, watching him drink coffee across from me. "Of course," he said. "You don't think I'd let you deal with this by yourself, do you?"

I had, but I couldn't say that, just stammering until Ratcliffe changed the subject. He helped me clean up, even rinsing the coffee siphon pot for me, and we headed into the museum together.

I bid him farewell on the steps, with him reminding me once again that we should meet for lunch.

And then, rather than heading to my office, I headed to the stacks.

There was nothing to enjoy about the experience of searching the stacks, going from floor to floor to confirm nobody was hiding there, walking the length of each before moving down to the next, and so I didn't enjoy it.

I didn't find anyone, but despite that, I couldn't quite shake the conviction that Mr. Carnus was still there somehow, simply laying low.

***

In retrospect, it should not have surprised me that Miss Coburn and Ratcliffe knew each other already—they were in the same field and of a similar age. At the least, they would have known each other by reputation, and perhaps might have even had schooling together.

Regardless of its origin, I found the two in the heated conversation of friends over the subject of the sarcophagus when I went to meet Ratcliffe for lunch. 

"Ultimately, what it comes down to is that it seems as if it never had a body in it, and whatever body they meant to put there certainly wasn't someone they intended to bury with honors," Miss Coburn was saying.

"Yes, it—" Ratcliffe noticed me then, and he seemed apologetic as he attempted to wind the conversation down. "Oh! Booth. Listen, it's been lovely to see you again, Claudia, but I've promised my lunch to Mr. Booth. Perhaps after—"

"Don't worry, Ratty," she said, cutting off his polite comment with a wave. "I've promised many a lunch to Booth myself. Booth, let me hand him off to you."

I tried to swallow the suspicion that my only friends were likely closer with each other than I had ever been with either of them, and said, "Ah. Actually, Miss Coburn, do you care to come along?"

Ratcliffe blinked. "Er, but Booth, we were going to talk about…?"

"Yes," I said, pushing forward past my embarrassment. If I were not closer to them, it was on my shoulders, not theirs. "Miss Coburn is… aware. And I, ah, value her perspective."

"Are you," he said, eyeing Miss Coburn with surprise.

Her brows went up. "And  _ you _ are? Booth, I didn't even know you  _ knew _ Ratty."

"We, ah. We were in school together…" It was a poor summary of our friendship, because we certainly hadn't been friends. I fought the urge to leave it at that and pushed forward. "We recently met again as adults and there was a… er. A situation."

"A situation," Miss Coburn echoed. "Well, let's not talk about it here, anyway. To lunch, then?"

Miss Coburn picked the restaurant, a nice Italian place that had an unmarked door and looked as if it would be too small to hold any sort of shop, but extended in length much further than it seemed it would from the outside. She and Ratcliffe, with occasional interjections from me, caught each other up on the collective three 'situations' that they had been involved with, and Ratcliffe eyed me speculatively.

"I suppose you weren't kidding when you said you had another ten or so incidents, given the number we've managed to get involved in by proxy," Ratcliffe said with a sardonic smile.

Miss Coburn nearly recoiled. " _ Merde _ . Ten? Booth, you didn't say anything."

My attempt at a smile felt rather sickly, and I can't suppose it presented any better. "Would you, ah, would you believe me if I said they'd become too rote to comment on?"

"No. Booth, you _ can _ say something, you know," Miss Coburn said. "We're friends. I'll help when I can."

A painful heat had knotted in my chest. "I know," I said awkwardly. "But it just… well. Plenty of them happen while I'm, ah, away."

"Nobody can have issue with that," Ratcliffe said, unexpectedly coming to my rescue. "Were all the incidents to do with ghosts?"

"Not at all," I said. "What, er… what were you saying about the sarcophagus when I arrived?"

Miss Coburn blinked, surprised by the apparent change of conversation. "It's the same things I'd told you. No ceremony, no body, and the ceremonial items weren't what you'd expect."

"Meaning?"

Ratcliffe said, "The grave goods were largely pottery shards—as well as a few long nails hammered into the coffin. Both of these are items that were used by the ancient Greeks to hold a corpse down—to keep a body in the grave if people suspected they might come back to life."

"But as I said, there were no bones, no sign that something had  _ actually _ been held down there," Miss Coburn said. "I don't think an entire body could have been removed without leaving any sign of it. Perhaps if it were just the pottery shards, but not the nails."

Now that they had described it, I recognized the folklore and my heart sank. "And you say that the sarcophagus seemed to be undisturbed since the 4th century BC?"

"Exactly," Miss Coburn said. Then, with the same dread I felt, "You think it's related."

Ratcliffe hissed a breath. Both of them were well enough versed in the folklore of the work they did to recognize the implications—it was simply that they wouldn't naturally assume the superstition to be the truth. "They did believe that if it was left alone without the body being destroyed, it would become more powerful over time. You think it pulled itself off the nails and escaped, unseen, when the sarcophagus was unsealed?"

_ Vrykolakas _ . Vampire—or something like it. "Yes," I said. My voice was weak. "It, er, seems the most likely option, doesn't it?"

They both looked at me with the expressions of those to whom this would never, in fact, have been the most likely option.

***

Despite my fear, I knew what I had to do, and, after having spent the day researching and planning, returned to the Parrington that evening after closing and let myself into the stacks.

This time, I didn't have to search the building from top to bottom, which I was profoundly grateful for. Still, in the short time before the man himself came out to meet me, I was aware of how much the stacks were  _ behaving _ —no lights that I had turned on turning off behind me, no lights that should be off turning on to beckon me, no sounds of footsteps where I knew there was nobody—and I had the terrible feeling that they were afraid of him.

"Booth," Carnus said.

I turned to face him, my hands cold and clammy. "Mr. Carnus," I said.

Once again, when I met his eyes, I felt myself calming, fascinated by his smile, the way he was walking toward me as if he had known me for years. He was thinner than he had been the night before, his suit more obviously missized, but of course he would be—the night before, he would have fed for the first time in two thousand years. Vrykolakas were usually described as bloated things, filled taut as a drum with stolen blood and whatever flesh or organs they had taken in with it, but I supposed Carnus hardly had the opportunity.

Carnus kept walking, getting too close without me being able to protest it, and then gently ran the back of his hand over my cheek. He did so tenderly, as if seeing something desirable in front of him. Not only did I not flinch, I could not. It felt pleasant, his touch cooler than it had been the day before, and again, I was reminded of something I could not place or name.

I wet my lips, a nervous gesture that Carnus watched, and cleared my throat. "I, ah, never asked you what you were looking for," I managed to say.

A heat came into those gray eyes, and for a moment I horrifyingly hoped he would say  _ You _ , but instead, he lowered his gaze with a smile. "Yes… I'm glad you came," he said. "I'm beginning to lose hope that the Parrington has what I need. I thought I could manage to find it on my own—I have always been on my own, Booth—but perhaps you could guide me."

There was an odd scent around him, nearly sweet, and I kept myself from swaying forward to try to inhale and get a better idea of what it was. "Er. Yes, I... I am an archivist here, after all." It was a pathetic response, but Carnus didn't seem to notice.

"I am looking for a powerful book of necromantic magics," he said. "I smelled that sort of power on you the moment I saw you, so I was thinking that it would be here, but I don't suppose something so dangerous would be neatly filed by catalog, would it?"

"No," I said. I had known he was looking for some kind of book since it was the stacks he'd needed, but I hadn't known the specifics. The icy cold realization of what he wanted was tempered by the soft, soothing pass of his hand over my hair, and though he had to reach up to do so, he made it seem like a natural, easy gesture. I did not want to remember that book, nor talk about it, but it made for an easy excuse to get him out of the stacks and to where I needed him. "You wish to return to life?"

"I wish to return to  _ eternal _ life," Carnus said. "I'm no ghost, to be summoned into a parody of flesh. I have a body, and it lives for a time when I do what needs to be done. But as flawed as it is, this body is stronger,  _ better _ than the one I had when I was alive, and I do not wish to lose it. I simply do not want to be… weak again. Hungry and weak."

I thought of what it must be like to be nailed into a coffin, held down by the weight of pottery shards. "No," I said. "I… I imagine you don't. Come with me."

Although I'd intended to lead the way, Carnus stepped up beside me, sliding a hand down the arm which was scarred from the necromantic ritual that began everything for me, and threading his fingers with mine. It felt nice, and I was mortified by what the night guards, Mr. Fiske and Mr Hobden, would think if they saw me.

But they were not on duty in the front entrance rotunda when I entered, and I suppose Ratcliffe and Miss Coburn had thus done their diligence in clearing the path for me as I had requested. The idea of  _ them  _ seeing me like this also did not appeal, but they would be more likely to understand the circumstances.

I tugged on Carnus's hand—he had been briefly distracted by the Foucault's Pendulum we have in the front rotunda—and continued to lead him to the boiler room.

"This does not seem as if it would be the way to your office," Carnus said. He was slightly unsure; whatever modern knowledge he had gained from the mind of whomever he had eaten was unable to provide him the layout of architecture as strange as the Parrington's. 

"It isn't," I said. I drew a breath: now to navigate a maze of half-lies, with just enough truth that he would not think to bring his full focus of his fascination upon me and make me long to tell him nothing but the truth. "The book you are thinking of is called the  _ Mortui Liber Magistri _ —" I gave its true name, though I will not write it here, as I felt he would recognize it if like called to like. "—and I burned it."

A frown creased his brows. "But—"

I pushed on. "Certain pages would not burn, and the offices are not safe if, er, if Dr. Starkweather decides to go through them to find something. So I hid them  _ in situ _ , crumpled pages at the very bottom of our bin of kindling." For once I was getting words out, the need for him to believe my lie overcoming my throat's natural inclination to strangle speech on its way out. "I thought they would, ah, would be safe there. We… never run out of pages from valueless donations, and so the bottom will never be reached. Even if it is, nobody will uncrumple or read them, as only garbage goes there. It… it, er, was safer than hiding it someplace where anything found would be suspiciously valuable." 

He believed it or, at least, believed I could not lie to him, and allowed me to lead him into the boiler room. He gave a cursory glance around it, his eyes skipping over the open furnace to fix on the bin of kindling—full, as I'd said, with the crumpled pages of assorted unremarkable books or out of date paperwork.

Carnus tugged on my hand, pulling me to face him, and then took my other hand as well, his thumbs caressing my wrists. "Booth," he said softly. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

"I… I have a question," I said.

"Yes?"

"Caranus," I said, and watched surprised recognition enter his eyes. "Is it, er, is it true that you are actually the son of Philip II? The… the brother of Alexander the Great?"

His mouth opened in a surprised o. "When did you realize?"

"Not… not so long ago. The sarcophagus."

"Ah, yes, the dangers of professionals," Caranus said. He smiled at me ruefully. 

So it was true. "I know that the Greeks believed, still believe, you became vampires, vrykolakas, through… ah. Through a much more esoteric set of options than modern literature would say. Committing crimes, having a cat jump over your grave… dying alone. That last, er, I was thinking. How much more alone can you get than being killed by your own brother, who viewed you as nothing more than a threat to his rule?"

I had been afraid that he would take this badly. Instead, he seemed pleased, and I was uncomfortably aware of how none of his reactions so far had seemed to have any depth to them. "Yes, Booth," he said. "I did not expect to be so understood."

"…Understood?" 

He freed one of his hands from mine, but only to put it to my face, to stroke his thumb next to my lips. "When I died, I was weak and afraid. When they trapped me in my grave, then too I was weak, and scared, and alone. But the years have taken away the first two from me, and perhaps now the last as well."

Before I could ask anything else, he was kissing me, his mouth over mine, demanding, sharp teeth pricking my lips and flooding both of our mouths with the taste of blood. It should have been frightening; it was thrilling.

"Keep me company, Booth," Caranus whispered when the kiss broke. The world was spinning, and I was not sure if it was shock or something else that made me so weak, my body tingling from head to toe, a shameful desire crushing me. "As you said, there are many ways to make one into a vrykolakas. We can change you, and then use the book to change us both again into something more. We will have all of the power, none of the weaknesses. And you can watch me conquer."

"Conquer?" I echoed, dazed.

"It should have been me in the first place. Alexander was obsessed with overcoming our father, with conquering and ruling more of the world than Philip had," Caranus said. "He succeeded. And, in turn, I will overcome Alexander."

I stared at him. It would have been one thing, in a way, if he had just been a man who had died alone, spent so long in pain and fear, and just wished to live his life now that he was free. He would still be a murderer who ate others to live, of course, but that was his nature. But intending to use his power on some sort of campaign…

All I could do was hope that it would help keep me from feeling guilt over what we were about to do, though I doubted that it would.

Hands clammy, I opened my mouth to answer, to build the perfect distraction—but I suppose this moment was itself distraction enough, because Ratcliffe finally came out of hiding by hauling Caranus off me. 

Caranus was strong, stronger than a man, and Ratcliffe was barely holding on despite his impressive arm-lock as Caranus bucked like a wild horse, thrashing around and trying to slam Ratcliffe into the wall. I fell back as the longing and fascination snapped, and Miss Coburn stepped up beside me, her eyes gone a bit wild over this whole situation. No wonder. Even knowing what he had admitted to be, even with the blood trickling over my chin, Caranus looked simply like a young man.

Abruptly, Caranus stopped thrashing. He looked at Miss Coburn where she stood next to me, holding the iron nail that she intended to hammer into his heart, and the mallet with which she intended to do it, and he looked at me, trembling and bloody.

He said, "You betrayed me too."

And for the first time, there was a passion in that voice, both rage and grief.

It was, I think, that passion that killed him. I think, perhaps, that I would feel better about it if I had done it myself as we had planned, if Ratcliffe had held him and Coburn had nailed him to make him go inert, and I had destroyed him while he were unconscious. At least then, I could fully accept my responsibility and carry that decision with me.

But I didn't. He flung Ratcliffe off him, succeeding finally after Ratcliffe's arms had relaxed during that sudden docile pause, and he charged at us. Miss Coburn dodged aside with her usual leggy athleticism. I did not. I did not know _ where _ to dodge, and so I simple folded down, my legs giving way as I crumpled under the taste of my own blood and the weight of his accusation.

His momentum carried him into me, then over my bent form into the furnace.

***

We watched him burn alive, feeling too responsible to just shut the door and leave him there. It did not take long—he went up as if he too were kindling, smoking with the bare amount of moisture he'd managed to give himself with his one feeding.

He stopped swearing at us and accusing us after his flesh went. His bones took longer, but they burned too. The furnace shouldn't have been hot enough to do so, but he was that brittle, and left not even ashes behind.

Finally, Ratcliffe said, "Sorry for jumping the gun there, Booth. It just looked like you were going to agree."

I hesitated on how to answer for a moment. I had been tempted to, and although my intention would have been to distract him further with that agreement, I don't know how honest with myself I had been. "It wouldn't… it wouldn't have mattered if I did," I said finally. "There was no book here, no scrap pages, so he would have realized sooner or later."

After all, I'd burned the book at home.

We watched the fire a little longer, although there was nothing left to watch, and Miss Coburn passed me her handkerchief so that I could press it to my lower lip. Neither of them otherwise commented on the kiss, for which I was grateful.

"Well," Miss Coburn said finally, "nothing like a murder to make one want to go to bed early. I think I'll head out."

"Yes," I said. "Er… thank you."

Miss Coburn waved it away, as though what she'd done here was nothing, though her face was preoccupied as she left the boiler room. Ratcliffe and I stood there a little longer, as if afraid that if we turned our backs on the fire, Caranus would be reconstituted and lunge out after us.

But he was gone again, this time for good—the destruction of the body was in folklore the only way that one could really rid oneself of a vrykolakas. 

"Let's go home," I said. My mouth had stopped bleeding, though it was cracked and sore, and I tossed Miss Coburn's handkerchief into the furnace as well before shutting the door. I didn't think she'd want it back.

"You haven't had dinner yet," Ratcliffe said. "Let's go eat first."

I looked at him incredulously. "Do, er, do you have an appetite after all that?"

"You know, I do," Ratcliffe said. "Besides which, I can't imagine that going to bed without supper will improve either of our moods."

He had a point there. I turned to go, and felt fingers trace down my sleeve toward my hand.

I didn't want it. As always, human touch made me tense up. But it was the same hand that Caranus had so recently held tenderly, and because of that, I couldn't bring myself to pull away.

Ratcliffe's hand folded in mine, and he looked at me warmly. I gazed back with horrified mortification. He had, after all, seen the kiss and correctly interpreted my longing.

I don't know what he was intending to say to me originally, but he saw the panic on my face, squeezed my hand, and instead said again, "Let's go to dinner, Booth. I think we could both enjoy each other's company tonight."

"…Yes," I said. I didn't think he was wrong, and I understood what he was in general terms inviting me to. I knew that he would not hold me to it, and that if—more certainly  _ when _ , perhaps even as soon as we were done having dinner together—I got cold feet, he would not let it impact our friendship in any way.

I had so many reasons to not pursue a relationship, my own presumed incompetence in one falling only shortly behind the humility of being considered a societal failure in yet another way, which in turn fell only shortly behind the terror of loving a man enough to condemn him to death by my family's curse.

Regardless, right now, I had committed to nothing more than dinner. I would try not to think too far ahead and be crushed by the future, but would just see each moment as it came. There was no harm in at least enjoying each other's company for a time, surely. 

I let Ratcliffe lead me out of the boiler room by the hand.

The one thing I knew as an absolute was that I did not want to be alone. Not now, dealing with what we had just done. And not at the end of my life. Perhaps, with the curse, I was damned if I did and damned if I didn't, but… 

As Caranus had shown, a solitary death held its own dangers for me.

***

The sarcophagus went on display as 'the possible sarcophagus of Alexander the Great', and beyond the three of us conspirators, nobody learned who it actually belonged to.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide! I had a blast writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it <3
> 
> The original idea here came from the combination of asking for two archaeologists and a vampire in your prompt! Since Ratcliffe specializes in Greece and the Levant, I looked into greek vampire lore. And since I am a big old Alexander nerd, and we had that recent excitement about another (false) Alexander sarcophagus (you know, the big black granite sarcophagus with the mummy juice inside), I wanted to put a similar discovery in this.
> 
> Vrykolakas are in folklore something between a vampire and a werewolf (or both: don't get it twisted, in vrykolakas folklore, a werewolf could also become a vampire after death). From what I could tell while doing research, we don't have clear surviving records of what the Greeks of Alexander's time thought of vampires, but we do have archaeological sites dating all the way back to 4500 BCE that show they feared undead rising -- some corpses were weighed down in the grave, or cut in two, or nailed in, or otherwise buried by people who thought they might get up again and wanted to stop that. With that in mind, I've kind of mixed modern (17th-18th century) Greek vrykolakas folklore with what we've seen in ancient/classical Greek archaeology for this story. 
> 
> Vrykolakas are also apparently known to be red-haired and gray-eyed, as (debatedly) was Alexander. So seeing that vrykolakas detail was enough to make me decide that I wanted specifically it to be Alexander-adjacent, not just some random Greek vampire.
> 
> Caranus was in fact the son of Philip II and the half-brother of Alexander the Great. History is unclear on the age at which he died mostly because history isn't sure which of Philip's wives was his mother, and it isn't historically clear who killed him either — as with most of Alexander's assassinated relatives, it may have been Alexander's doing, or may have been Alexander's mother, Olympias. Since there's a variety of sources that all say different things, I decided to use Justin's "Epitome of the Philippic History of Pompeius Trogus" as the source for this story: that Alexander's brother Caranus was old enough to be a rival for the throne and so Alexander had him killed.
> 
> Other things: The thing Booth keeps not being able to remember is Ivo, of course, since he's once again being seduced by a dangerous supernatural force right here in front of the Parrington's salad. The story he was reading when he couldn't sleep was Algernon Blackwood's "The Singular Death of Morton", Blackwood's sole vampire story.


End file.
